


c is for

by neros_violin



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Catharsis, Gen, Post-Season/Series 01, Sister-Sister Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neros_violin/pseuds/neros_violin
Summary: Throughout her life, Claire has been described by a number of words that share a first letter with her first name.
Kudos: 54
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	c is for

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dialux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/gifts).



> This is for dialux, who likes sister-sister relationships, AUs, angst, and road trips. I managed 3.5/4 - I hope you enjoy, and happy Yuletide!

Throughout her life, Claire has been described by a number of words that share a first letter with her first name. Clever (by Dad, who isn’t entirely sure whether it’s a compliment). Capable (by her teachers, who didn’t realize how far this word would take her). Conscientious (by every boss she’s every had in her performance evaluations, until she was the one doing the performance evaluations). Captivating (by Martin, when he’s making the effort to make her believe he cares, the fucking insufferable, lying prick). Calculating (by Martin, when he wants her to feel sorry for him, and sorry that she is herself). Controlling (by Martin, when she asks him to do … almost anything at all).

Cold (by Martin, when she doesn’t want to fuck him).

Cunt (by Martin, when she doesn’t want to fuck him, and by Fleabag, all the time, in almost every circumstance).

None of the words are wrong, some days, though the way people mean them and the way she takes them are not always aligned. Nor are any of the words and their application new, after a few more decades of life than she wants to admit to. 

She tightens her hands on the steering wheel and mutters, “Clairvoyant.”

“What?” Fleabag asks. Claire glances over at her, can’t seem to stop glancing over at her, really, it’s not very safe, but it’s simply not possible for her to keep her eyes on the road. 

Fleabag’s eyes are staring out the window. All Claire can see of her is the sharp angle of her jaw, trembling slightly; her neck, corded with tension.

“I think I’m clairvoyant,” Claire says, and predictably, her sister laughs. It’s thin and probably habit as much as genuine emotion, but habit is comforting when ten minutes ago, you came across your sister looking like she was half a step from stepping in front of a speeding bus. 

The car pulls up to a stop sign. Claire comes to a full stop. Carefully. Careful Claire. 

A left turn takes them to Fleabag’s neighbourhood. Going straight takes them to hers. A right turn takes them to the highway. Claire puts on her left turn blinker, but her hands turn the steering wheel to the right.

“Where are we going? Is your clairvoyance telling you to take us to Millie’s for a cookie?”

“I don’t know where we’re going,” Claire says. 

“A clairvoyant would know,” Fleabag says, because fucking contrary is the first descriptor anyone would use to describe _her_. Fuck.

“Well, I don’t know what to call it, then, when you find yourself in your car, with no memory of how you got there, wearing fucking… fucking … yoga pants.” They both take deep breaths and hold for several seconds, contemplating the unprecedented. “You just know that you have to be somewhere, you have this feeling in your gut like someone has put a hook into you, this immense, incomprehensible pain, and you can’t breathe for the panic, but you’re driving anyway, because this feeling is telling you that you _have_ to.” Claire is aware, somewhat, that she has floored the gas pedal at the same time that her voice has raised in both volume and shrillness. “And then you look up and you see your sister, the only person in the world who loves you, staring at a fucking bus like it’s her demon lover and she can’t wait for him to take her to hell!”

Claire slams on the brakes, welcomes the cut of the seatbelt into her chest. Fleabag makes a soft, hurt sound beside her, and their eyes meet, finally. 

“You’re at a full stop in the middle of the highway, Claire.”

“I know that,” Claire sighs, abruptly exhausted. Her limbs are leaden, her chest aching and hollow.

“Did. Did all of that really happen?” Fleabag sounds, for once, slightly - perhaps - awed.

“No, you fucking twit! I was coming to _apologize_ for … not wanting to believe you, with Martin.” She takes a breath. “I thought, at the time, it was easier, if you were lying, and he was telling the truth. Because then, I. Well. I wouldn’t have to change, would I? Everything could stay the same. Which is, of course, stupid and selfish, and that’s what I was going to tell you. I even wore yoga pants so you could feel superior. But then I got to the shop and I saw you and you looked like you wanted to die, and then I wanted to die.” 

“Oh,” Fleabag says.

“Yes. Oh,” Claire says, calmly (that’s one of her words), and bursts into tears. 

“Oh, no,” Fleabag moans, plaintively. 

“I’m sorry,” Claire manages. Sobs rock through her body, completely outside of her control, a vast, unstoppable release of grief and fear and shame. It’s horrifying, on many levels, she hates it, she hates feeling this so much, feeling anything so much, really. “I’m so worried about you.”

“I-I’m fine,” Fleabag says, baring her teeth in that way that means she’s really gritting them.

Abruptly, Claire’s sobs turn to snorts of laugher. “Oh, yes. We’re both fine. Very definitely fine and not at all fucked up. I’m not married to an insufferable asshole, and you weren’t about to walk in front of a bus.”

“God, Claire, you’re not supposed to _talk_ about it like that.” It’s such a Fleabag thing to say, such a ridiculous, absurd thing to say that Claire laughs harder, her stomach hurts she’s laughing so hard, this can’t be healthy. Fleabag just watches her, a hand hovering uncertainly in the air around Claire until it finally lands like a butterfly on the wing of her shoulder blade. 

It helps, enough that Claire is able to register other sights and sounds. The first few drops of a rain shower pattering on the windshield. Tear tracks on Fleabag’s cheeks. A horn honking behind them.

“Fuck,” she mutters. She puts the car back into gear and gets up to highway speed. “Fuck that,” she says. “We are going to … to … the country. And we are going to … walk on the moors. Where there are no buses. And talk until we can’t talk anymore. Until you. Feel better.”

“That sounds dreadful,” Fleabag says.

“I know. It’s what you deserve,” Claire says, sniffing.

Fleabag looks out the window again, but now, Claire can see the hint of a smile. "Cunt."


End file.
